Something Good
by gwennie3579
Summary: M/R SLASH. Roger relapses into drug abuse... but will Mark be there to get him clean again?


**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Warnings for slash, drug abuse, and LOTS of language.

**A/N:** I love these boys. Writing about them is sort of like getting together with old friends. Way more angst ahead than the last story, but I just can't resist a little sap at the end. Please review if you enjoy, or if you have constructive comments!

Mark finds the hypodermic buried in the bathroom trash; that's how it starts.

He's shaving when the razor slips from his hand and goes clattering into the trashcan. Muttering a curse, Mark bends over, pawing through the discarded tissues and toilet paper rolls. His finger is mere centimeters away from the point of the needle when he sees the metallic glint.

Letting out a startled hiss, Mark snatches his hand back as if burned. Trembling, he carefully brushes aside the debris in the trash can until he's revealed the empty, stained syringe.

"Oh, god," he whispers, sinking to his knees on the cold cement floor and grasping the plastic edges of the trash can. "God, no."

Roger is using again. Not six months after they put Mimi in the ground, and the asshole is fucking shooting.

Chilled to his very core, Mark stands up, feeling suddenly numb. He isn't going through this again -- _can't _go through it again. He doesn't have the strength -- doesn't have the faith -- to get Roger clean for a second time.

Mark waits in the loft for Roger to get back from a gig, his first since Mimi's death. He wonders vaguely which member of the band is supplying for Roger, or if maybe he's going back to The Man. In the end, though, it doesn't matter where he got it, or who's giving it to him; he's using, and that's all Mark needs to know.

Roger walks through the door at 2:36 in the morning, tiptoeing into the loft, expecting Mark to be in bed asleep. He jumps a little when Mark suddenly turns on the overhead light in the kitchen, but his reaction is delayed, sluggish. Eventually, his eyes wander to the table, and the hypodermic laying small and innocuous in a sea of stainless steel.

He looks up at Mark, and there's no denial on his face -- only guilt and shame and something that Mark thinks might be fear.

"Mark, I... god, I..."

"Shut up," Mark says in low, measured tones. He points over toward the couch. "Sit down." He's not sure how he's managed to keep his voice from shaking, especially when his insides are quivering like Jell-o.

"Mark --" Roger begins, but the other man holds up a hand, silencing him.

"I said," he hisses through clenched teeth, "sit the _fuck _down."

Roger does as he says, making his way slowly to the beat-up old couch and slumping down in the corner, staring at the floor.

"Do you want to know how I found this?" Mark says, almost casually. Roger doesn't look up, and Mark walks around the table, leaning against it, trying to even out his breathing. "Do you want to know how I fucking found it?" Still, there's no response from Roger.

"I dropped my razor in the trash can this morning," he says, and Roger's gaze flickers up for a brief second, "and I reached in to pull it out."

Roger is up and across the room in record time, a look of sheer terror on his face. "Jesus, Mark," he says, reaching out for Mark's hand. "Did you... did it...?"

For a moment, Mark isn't sure how to respond. His hand is cold in Roger's as the other man turns it over, searching for a tell-tale pin prick. Finally, he tugs it away, shaking his head.

"Christ," Roger says, relief flooding his voice. He bows his neck, resting his forehead lightly against Mark's shoulder. "Christ, Mark. If it had... if you..."

"I know," Mark says, and for a moment he sounds almost gentle. "Don't you think I fucking know that?"

Roger raises his head, and Mark can see his pupils are massively dilated, leaving just a sliver of green around the black. His breathing is slow and labored, and as Mark watches, he reaches up a hand to brush something invisible off the back of his neck.

"Jesus," Mark says, taking a step back. "You're fucking lit right now, aren't you?"

Roger shakes his head, stepping forward to close the space between them. "Mark, no. I just... it wasn't that big a deal. It was just... it wasn't that much. I swear it."

"How long?" Mark asks, and finally he can hear the tremor in his voice.

"It's not like that, man," Roger says, scratching compulsively at his arm. "It-it was only the once."

"Only the once," Mark echoes, and Roger nods his head earnestly. "And this time," he adds, with a bitter laugh. "I guess you'll say the same thing next time, too."

"Mark, I promise," Roger says, pleading. "I'm not using. It was an accident. It just... happened. But it won't again. I promise you."

"It just happened," Mark says, incredulous. "What, did you trip and fall on the needle? Did one of your junkie friends force it into your veins? Is that how it happened, _Rog_?"

"I promise," Roger says again in a whisper.

Mark stares at him for a long moment, then moving quickly he darts around Roger, making for the other man's bedroom. Reflexes dulled by the drugs, Roger lags behind. He makes it into the room just as Mark starts pulling open the drawers of his cheap, press-board dresser.

"Mark, stop it!" Roger says, panic-stricken. He bats futilely at Mark's arms, trying to pull him away, but Mark shakes him off. Bending down, he tugs open the bottom drawer and begins tossing out crumpled-up underwear and t-shirts. When the bottom of the drawer is revealed, he sucks in a breath, sickened to find what he knew would be there.

"An accident," he says shakily, turning to Roger. The other man has stepped away, his arms wrapped protectively around himself, and it suddenly strikes Mark that he's losing weight. Kicking himself for not noticing the signs, Mark points to the dirty spoon, lighter and tourniquette that have been uncovered in the drawer.

"You call _that _an accident? Shit, Roger, how stupid do you think I am?"

"I... I'm sorry," Roger says, choking back a sob. "Mark, I am. I didn't mean for this... I didn't. Please," he says, stepping forward so close that Mark has to look up into his glazed, faraway eyes, "help me."

Mark almost cracks then. Almost.

"Get out," he says instead, looking over Roger's shoulder at a spot on the wall.

"What?" Roger asks, disbelieving.

"I said, get out. I've helped you once, and I can't do it again. I can't see you... like that... again."

"Mark," Roger says, and the betrayal in his voice is nearly the other man's undoing. "You can't --"

"If you won't leave, I will."

Roger shakes his head. "Where the fuck am I supposed to go?" he says softly.

Mark swallows over the burn in his throat. "I don't know," he says. "And I don't care." It's not entirely true, but it's not exactly a lie, either.

"Just... be gone by the time I get up," he says, walking toward the door, shaking off Roger's hand when the other man reaches out for him. "If you're not, I'm out."

***

Collins calls with weekly updates, even though Mark tries to pretend he doesn't care, that he doesn't wait up every Friday night, holding his breath until the phone rings. He'll never tell Collins that he doesn't screen his calls anymore, because he's afraid it might be an emergency, and because he can't bear to hear his voice mingled with Roger's on the answering machine.

That's why, when the phone rings on a Thursday afternoon, Mark picks up on the start of the second ring. It's been four weeks since he gave Roger his ultimatum -- the longest month of Mark's life.

"Hello?" Mark says, breathless from dashing from one end of the loft to the other.

"Mark," Collins says, and a chill of fear shivers through Mark at the urgency in the other man's voice.

"What's happened?" he says, sitting down on the arm of a nearby chair -- Roger's favorite chair.

"He's gone."

Mark sucks in a breath. "Shit," he says quietly, closing his eyes. "How--"

"Since yesterday morning."

"Shit," he says again. "Any idea--"

"No," Collins says quickly, not bothering to wait for Mark's question. "And, Mark -- it's bad. I've never seen him like this. Not even... then."

Tears sting Mark's eyes as he considers the implications of what Collins is saying. Roger very nearly self-destructed after April died. He tried to take his own life twice before he got clean. Both times, Mark was there to pick up the pieces and put him back together.

This time...

Mark grabs his keys and is out the door before he can even think of where to go, or what he'll do when he gets there.

An hour later, Mark picks his way through the tent city for the second time, stepping over passed out drunks and toothless prostitutes beckoning to him from cardboard boxes. He peers carefully at every body sprawled out unconscious on the ground, looking for Roger's trademark rockstar hair among the filth, the empty bottles and discarded needles.

Suddenly, he straightens, cocking his head as an idea occurs to him. _The park..._

_She was huddled in the park, in the dark..._

Mark turns and breaks into a sprint, certain now that he knows where to find Roger. He's not sure of the exact bench where Joanne and Maureen found Mimi, but he doesn't know that it matters. He goes methodically in a circle from the nearest park entrance, checking every bench, every bridge, every public restroom.

Finally, after two hours of searching, Mark slumps, exhausted, onto a low cement wall. It's beginning to get dark, the shadows stretching around him as he shivers in the cold autumn air. He remembers that Roger hates the fall, and an ache settles deep in his chest. He's just getting ready to push himself up and move on when he hears a whimper and a low moan behind him. Turning, Mark's heart leaps into his throat.

Could it be?

There's a body curled on the other side of the wall, just a few yards away from where Mark is sitting. He can't see much except the top of a brown head and a ragged blue sweater. The figure is painfully thin and definitely male.

Pulse racing, Mark climbs over the wall and runs to the man's side, crouching down next to him and reaching out a tentative hand. The man stirs, muttering nonsensically to himself as he tries to shrug off Mark's touch.

"Roger?" Mark whispers, knowing without a doubt this is his ex-roommate and former best friend curled up before him. "Rog? Come on, wake up, man. I gotta get you home."

Roger tilts his face up at the sound of Mark's voice, brow furrowing. He blinks his eyes open and gives the other man a confused, unfocused gaze.

"Mark?" he whispers through dry, cracked lips.

"Yeah, it's me," Mark says, rubbing his hand up and down Roger's arm, trying to instill some warmth and life into the other man.

Roger blinks, not seeming to comprehend. "Mark?" he says again, frowning. "I didn't think... thought it would be... thought it would be... Mimi..."

Mark shakes his head, not sure what Roger is talking about.

"That's okay, though," he goes on, letting his eyes flutter closed once more. "I'd rather it was you, anyway. Glad you're here... now."

Mark swallows a sob and leans down, trying to get his arms underneath Roger to hoist him up. "I'm glad, too," he whispers.

Suddenly, Roger's eyes fly open. "Where's Angel?" he says, and his voice is completely clear.

Mark pauses, thrown by the question. "Roger... Angel's dead."

"I know that," Roger says, and Mark would almost swear the other man rolls his eyes. "But why isn't she here to take me...?"

"Take you where, Rog? _I'm_ here. I'm here to take you home."

"Take me... home..." Roger smiles, and Mark bows his head, pressing his lips briefly to his friend's temple. He's not sure Roger is capable of walking, and he knows he can't carry the man all the way back to the loft. Instead, he sits Roger up, leaning his back gently against the wall.

"Stay here," he says quietly.

Roger reaches out a hand, fumbling blindly in the growing dark. "Where are you going?" he asks, voice edged with panic.

"I'm just going over to that payphone to call Collins," Mark says soothingly, squeezing Roger's hand in his own. "You just sit right here and rest, and I'll be back in a minute."

"Don't leave me, Mark," Roger whimpers, pulling the other man toward him. Mark obliges, slipping his arms around Roger and rocking him back and forth. After a few moments, Roger's head slumps to the side, and Mark thinks he must be asleep. Slowly, he extricates himself from Roger's clinging embrace, and makes his way quickly to the payphone.

Forty minutes later, Collins is paying the cabbie, and then the two of them are supporting Roger between them as they haul him slowly up the stairs. It takes another twenty minutes to get him inside and into bed, and Mark is exhausted and sore by the time they get done.

Pulling up the sheets over Roger's trembling frame and wiping a film of cold sweat from his forehead, Mark runs the back of his hand down Roger's cheek and gives him a last, long look before heading out into the kitchen, where Collins is making a pot of instant coffee.

"You okay?" Collins asks, measuring the dark powder and carefully pouring it into the carafe.

"No," Mark says, running a hand through his already-messy blonde hair and dropping onto the couch. "But at least he's home."

"Is he?" Collins says, so quietly Mark isn't sure he heard correctly.

"What?"

"I said, is he? Home, I mean. Or are you gonna toss him out on his ass again as soon as things get bad?" Collins turns to face Mark, and there is anger burning in his dark eyes.

Taken aback, Mark can only stare at his friend, stunned and hurt.

"That's not fair," he says finally, but he has a hard time getting the words out. "You don't know what it was like --"

"Don't I?" Collins says, pouring a cup of coffee and putting the mug on the table with more force than absolutely necessary. "Don't I know what it's like to watch someone you love dying, knowing there's nothing you can do to stop it?"

"That was different," Mark says in a whisper. "Angel didn't choose --"

"And Roger did? Roger chose to get AIDS? He chose to get addicted?"

"Yeah," Mark says, getting to his feet, feeling a surge of righteous anger. "He did _choose _to get addicted. He chose it when April offered him that goddamn dirty needle. He's not stupid Collins; he knew the risks. And he did it anyway. Well, look where it fucking got him." Mark is breathing heavily by the end of his speech, and though his knees are shaking, he refuses to back down.

Collins says nothing, just shakes his head slowly and pushes the mug of steaming coffee in Mark's direction. He picks up his coat and shrugs it on, heading for the door. He pauses for just a moment before he pulls it open, but when he speaks, he doesn't turn around.

"I know how much you care about him," he says. "And that's why I'm not telling you what I really think about the shit you've pulled. But I hope, for both your sakes, you figure this out. While there's still time. If I had just one more day with Angel..."

Mark moves forward, wanting to go to Collins, to comfort him, but he's out the door before Mark can get more than a few steps. Sighing, Mark wraps his arms around himself, shivering in the cold loft, feeling more alone than ever.

***

If he thought it would be easier the second time around, he is sorely mistaken.

Roger's withdrawal drags on for weeks and then months, testing Mark's physical and emotional limits, and his sanity. He spends long nights holding his friend as he shakes and sweats, begging for another hit. During the day, he force-feeds him soup and whatever Collins scrounges up and brings by. Then, he wipes Roger's forehead and smooths back his hair as he heaves up most of it.

Mark sleeps when Roger sleeps, resting fitfully on the couch in case Roger tries to sneak out. He tries to squeeze in a shower every now and again, though he won't risk more than five minutes. He gives Roger sponge baths when the other allows it, which isn't often. Roger shouts and swears and kicks and bites, and Mark knows it's out of embarrassment and shame, but it annoys him nonetheless.

It's during one of Mark's five-minute showers that Roger manages to slip out. Wild with fear and anger, Mark goes out in nothing but a pair of hastily thrown-on sweat pants and a t-shirt to search for him. An hour later, when he returns to the loft, frozen and terrified, Roger is there, perching on the edge of his bed, staring at the packet of white powder in his hand.

"Did you--?" Mark asks, approaching slowly, afraid to startle him... even though all he wants to do is take him in his arms and hold him and shake him and ask him if he knows how stupid he is... how much he scared the other man.

Roger shakes his head. "No," he whispers, transfixed by the baggie and its contents. "Not yet."

Mark holds out a hand. "Give it to me."

Roger shakes his head again. "I can't."

"Roger," Mark says, voice hard. "Give me the damn junk."

"No. I just... I just want to hold it. I won't shoot, I promise."

The fear and longing on Roger's face sends arrows of pain shooting through Mark, but he tells himself to be strong.

"You've made that promise before," he says, with a contemptuous sneer. There is a flicker of hurt in Roger's green eyes, and Mark thinks maybe he's starting to break through.

"Just give it to me," he says, softening his voice. "I'll get rid of it, and you won't have to see it again." Mark leans in, reaching out his hand, but Roger snatches the baggie away, glaring up at his friend with raw hatred in his eyes.

"Get away!" he hisses, holding the packet protectively against his chest. Mark makes a grab for it, and Roger lashes out, knocking his arm away. Undeterred, Mark tries again, lunging forward and trying to uncurl Roger's death grip around the baggie.

The two continue tussling, and Mark glances around, looking for some sort of aid. The only thing on the stool next to Roger's bed is a half-full glass of water. Without thinking, Mark grabs the glass and tosses the contents at Roger's face.

Sputtering with surprise and anger, Roger scrambles back across the mattress, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes.

"Are you fucking _serious_?" he bellows, seething. Mark is breathing hard but he is silently cheering. The distraction had given him the opportunity he needed to duck around Roger's defenses and wrestle the packet out of his hand.

When Roger realizes he's been bested, he makes a leap at the other man, howling and thrashing against him. He's regained much of his strength over the last two months, and he fights Mark like a wildcat. Unable to match his physical strength, Mark resorts to the only kind of fighting he knows -- dirty. He wraps a hand in Roger's long, touseled locks and yanks hard, winning him a sharp cry and a string of foul names hurled at him. Roger is thrown off-balance by the move, and Mark uses the opportunity to make a mad dash for the bathroom.

Roger is on his heels, but though Mark is small he's also fast, and he's pitching toward the toilet before Roger can catch up, emptying the baggie and flushing in one lurching motion.

He turns, bracing himself for an assault, but Roger just stands there breathing raggedly, staring at the toilet in horror. Mark waits for a long moment, not letting his guard down, but Roger eventually turns and trudges back to his room, shoulders slumped.

Mark follows, wishing he could say or do something to make this easier, but knowing he can't. He pities Roger but resents him at the same time, resents being made into the bad guy because he's trying to save his friend's life.

"Rog," he begins, but thinks better of it when the other man turns a pained, betrayed gaze on him.

"I hate you," Roger whispers, swallowing hard. Mark can see twin trails of tears streaking down his cheeks. "I hate you so much."

Mark's heard worse, certainly, but it doesn't keep his heart from breaking every time. He looks up at Roger and shakes his head, trying to see his best friend hidden somewhere in the monster in front of him.

"It's killing you," he says, voice weak. "It's killing you, Roger."

"So what?" Roger says bitterly. "I'm dying anyway, aren't I?"

Something in Roger's tone ignites a fire in Mark -- a fire that maybe has been there all along, but which he's been afraid to acknowledge. Suddenly, his walls -- the ones he worked years to construct and perfect -- come tumbling down.

"And that's making you leave me faster than you already are!" he shouts, hurling the accusation at Roger like a weapon.

The two stare at each other in stunned silence, both of them surprised by Mark's outburst, his honesty.

"Mark," Roger begins, reaching out a hand and taking a step toward the other man.

"Stop," Mark says. "Just... don't."

"Fuck you," Roger says, and Mark looks up, taken aback.

"What?"

"I don't know if you've realized this yet, Mark," Roger says, "but not every goddamn thing is about you."

"Roger --"

"Guess who's addicted, Mark? Guess who has AIDs? Guess who's dying?" Roger pauses, and Mark can see a fresh round of tears welling up in his eyes. "Guess what? It isn't you."

Mark feels a sharp pain lance through him, somewhere in the area of his heart. Roger's words have hit home, though he's terrified to admit it, terrified to acknowledge that everything Roger has said is true. He wants to tell Roger he's sorry, wants to tell him how much he loves him, how scared he is of losing him.

"Well, cry me a fucking river," is what he says instead. "It may not be about me, but it's not about you either. It's about us. It's about me taking care of your sorry ass, and you treating me like shit for it."

"Get over yourself," Roger says disgustedly, trying to push past Mark toward the door. Mark blocks him though, standing firmly in his way.

Roger shoves him to the side, but Mark shoves back. His patience has officially run out; he's hurt and scared and sad and just fucking sick of putting up with this. When Roger shoves him again, Mark pulls back his fist, barely stopping to think about what he's going to do.

The punch lands squarely on Roger's jaw, sending him reeling back a few steps. Pain like fire shoots through Mark's hand, blazing up his knuckles.

"Mother_fucker!_"

Roger grabs his hand before he realizes what's happening, turning it over and checking for bruises and bumps.

"You fucking idiot," he says quietly, fingertips moving over already-swollen flesh. Mark snatches his hand away, glaring up at the other man. There's a faint red splotch on the side of his face, and Mark can't help but hope it hurt a little.

"Just leave me alone, Roger," he says, turning and heading out of the room. Suddenly, there's a hand fisted in the back of his shirt, yanking him backward forcefully.

"I don't think so, Cohen," Roger says, spinning him around. "You're not going to throw a hissy fit like that and then just walk out."

Mark looks away, defeated and pissed off. "Let me go, Roger," he says, voice thick with exhaustion. "Kill yourself, don't kill yourself; I don't care anymore."

Roger shakes his head. "You're such a fucking drama queen."

Mark shrugs. "What's your point?"

Roger huffs, and Mark isn't sure if it's a laugh or a sigh of exasperation, but he suddenly finds himself pressed against the wall, Roger's hands on his shoulders, pinning him against the plaster. The look on Roger's face is unlike anything Mark has ever seen before, and he braces himself, thinking Roger's about to return his punch.

Leaning close and putting his lips next to Mark's ear, Roger whispers, "How does someone so smart get to be so stupid?" He pulls back, meeting Mark's gaze, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I want to leave you?"

But Mark can't answer, because Roger's lips are suddenly on his in a searing, devastating kiss. Mark gasps, stunned, and then as quickly as the shock hit him, it's over, and he's returning the kiss with wanton eagerness he'll probably be ashamed of later.

But later doesn't matter right now. Now is all that matters, because now is all they have. Mark knows this, and he's filled with relief to realize that Roger knows this, too.

Stumbling, and never once breaking contact, they make their way to the mattress in a tangle of limbs, all the anger and all the fear of the last months -- years, really -- now channeled into something else entirely. Something bigger than the both of them, something more powerful than drugs, destruction, detachment...

Something good.

***

Collins stops by the next morning with two bags of groceries, ducking into the loft with a slightly shame-faced look. Roger has the shakes, and he's curled up on the couch in Mark's lap. Mark runs his fingers through the other man's sweaty hair, offering silent support. He's worried and tired, but he thinks maybe the worst is over, and maybe... just maybe... there's a new beginning somewhere ahead.

When Collins enters, he gently dislodges Roger, easing a pillow under his head and placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Hey, C-Collins," Roger mumbles as he curls more tightly into himself.

"How's it hanging, my man?" Collins asks lightly, but Mark can see the concern in his eyes. Giving the man a slight smile, Mark walks into the kitchen and begins to help him put away the food.

"Thanks for bringing this over," he says, pulling out a bottle of Stoli and shaking his head with a grin.

"It's a peace offering," Collins says, stacking some oranges and apples in an old basket on the counter. "I never apologized for what I said that night. I was way out of line --"

"Forget it," Mark says, waving a hand dismissively. "You were right to be pissed at me. I was acting like a --"

"Giant asshole?"

Mark laughs. "I was going to say 'child,' but okay, that works too."

"You gonna be okay?" Collins asks, suddenly serious.

"Yeah," Mark says, with a look toward Roger's huddled form on the couch. "I figured it out."

"You...?" Collins follows the line of Mark's gaze and his eyes widen in sudden understanding. "Well, shit," he says, a grin stretching his features.

Mark feels a soft smile on his lips. "Yeah."

"It's not gonna be easy."

"I know," Mark says quietly. And Collins is right. It isn't going to be easy to get Roger clean, to keep him healthy, to watch him slowly die. But it suddenly seems a hell of a lot easier than it was before. Collins would give his whole world, his life, for just one more day with Angel. Who knows how many days Mark has with Roger?

He's not going to waste a single one.


End file.
